Dead Man Talking
by Miss Laine
Summary: Harry often wondered if he was crazy. Only crazy people talk to dead people, right?


Disclaimer: Harry Potter and all things associated with JK Rowling's great books do not belong to me, and I use them solely for creative something-er-rather.

A/N: I don't usually go the Harry's suicidal route, but I could see it. Teens are moody and unpredictable, and Harry's had his share of misfortune and disaster. He isn't perfect, and he sure isn't indestructible. So I thought I'd delve into the possibilities there and write this little thing down. Tell me what you think.

Title: Dead Man Talking

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Harry often wondered if he was crazy.

He did not know anyone else who spoke with dead people.

Okay, lots of people spoke with ghosts, he reminded himself quickly, but that wasn't what he meant.

He talked to dead and gone people.

He talked to dead _dead_people. The ones that didn't come back.

For instance, he had long and involved conversations with Sirius Black, his godfather. Usually they occurred late at night, when he sat alone in the common room and longed for comfort.

He only rarely slept.

Sometimes, he wondered whether the conversations he had were really hallucinations caused by lack of sleep.

But it felt good to talk with Sirius, and he always felt slightly rested afterwards.

At least, he would be able to stay awake until dinner, usually.

Sirius often told him about his parents, and how wonderful and kind his mother had been. He seemed oddly unwilling to talk about James, though. Harry ignored that, though, willing to grasp what he could.

Sometimes, Sirius would try to talk about the veil, but Harry would always tell him to stop or he would run away. He did not want to hear it. He did not want to know about how it 'wasn't his fault' or whatever. Sirius would say that just to make him feel better, but it wouldn't.

Because it _was _his fault, and there was nothing to do to change that.

Once, he talked to Cedric, but the other boy did not say much. He just regarded Harry sadly, grey eyes solemn and, to Harry, reproachful.

He tried to apologize for it all, he tried to tell Cedric just how sorry he was, but the other did not listen.

It was those indirect actions—convincing Cedric to take the cup with him, going to the Department of Mysteries, forcing his Godfather to make the decision to follow—things like that, that hurt him so much.

The deaths weren't his fault…but they were…all because of him…all because of the decisions he'd made, trying to be brave, fair, nice, whatever.

Cedric only said two things.

"Harry, bring my body back to my parents."

"I guess he did kill the spare."

And the words always cut into Harry like a sharp knife, and instead of blood there were tears.

There was absolutely no one for him to turn to.

Ron and Hermione were fairly normal teens in the wizarding world. They were dating, they were in love, and they were mostly concerned about common little things. Like grades, popularity, teachers, sports…

Harry did not care about his grades. His failing marks in every single class he was taking attested to that.

And yet no one spoke to him about it. He was alone.

He did not care about sports anymore. Snape had gone to Dumbledore in order to keep his Quidditch ban in effect, and had succeeded. Harry was banned—but Malfoy was as well.

But he did not argue it, just nodded and let Ginny keep his broom as the Gryffindor seeker.

He did not need it anymore.

He was afraid to fly, afraid that he would feel free and happy again.

And then he would never want to land again…

Popularity…that had never been important to him, but now the notion of it did not even cross his mind. Who cared if all the girls wanted a piece of him, if the press all wanted to talk to him, if all the boys hated him for being so…famous?

All he could think about was those that he had failed.

No one talked to him about any of it, and he found that strangely painful. To know that he was completely alone, adrift and lost and without hope, and that no one was going to rescue him…

It burned an ugly black mark on his soul. What little soul and spirit he had left…

He spent a great deal of his evenings in the Astronomy Tower, favorite haunt of the more moody and more romantic of Hogwart's students.

But none came anymore, not since Harry had started sitting on the ledge, looking down at the stones below him. Wondering if it would hurt…

And he would always get back to the Gryffindor commons right before curfew and he would stay up late, talking to Sirius or Cedric.

No one spoke to him anymore. He had pushed them all away, he knew, but it still hurt that no one tried… Even Ron and Hermione had given up on him, had deemed him 'hopeless.' They were supposedly waiting for him to come out of his 'little depression,' and then they'd be willing to talk.

They could talk to him at his funeral. At his grave.

He would listen to them then.

The flat stones looked almost inviting to him, washed with moonlight and cool and calm. They would kill him if he hit, he knew. They would end it, would end the conversations, the emptiness, the craziness. He wouldn't be talking to imaginary ghosts anymore.

He would be talking to the real thing…

Unless suicides went to Hell, as some believed. Then, he would be damned.

But he was damned anyways, damned in life. What did it matter if he was damned for eternity? At least he would have earned it.

He leaned forward a little, peering closer at the stones and letting the stiff breeze push his body around. He knew he should be cold, but he could not feel it…he could not feel anything anymore…

He leaned away, back into the tower. Perhaps he should go to Dumbledore, beg for help, beg for the help he so desperately needed…

He leaned forward again. But Dumbledore did not care…none of them did…Remus had not spoken to him in weeks, months, and his friends were unable to even begin to understand the depths of his self-disgust and depression.

A short gust made his stomach lurch as he was almost pushed off the small ledge and out the window.

He wasn't sure he could do it. Just a little farther forward, and he would overbalance. Magic would not save him. Not when he wanted to die…

A fraction of a fraction of an inch at a time, he leaned forward, trying to find that balance between falling forward and backwards.

He teetered only a few moments like that, and then he steeled himself for it and held his breath. He would not breathe again, he told himself.

He kept his eyes open. He did not want to face his death with his eyes shut tightly. He wanted to see it coming, to know that he'd chosen death over what little life he had.

Adrenaline surged through his body as he tipped off the ledge. He wanted to scream, but he bit his tongue hard.

And just as he started to fall, a rough hand grabbed his robes at the back of his neck and yanked him backwards. Harry coughed, half-choked, and smiled.

Once again, he'd been saved.

And once again, by the time he turned around there would be no one there. He would be alone in the Astronomy tower, wondering if his savior were real or imagined, whether he was crazy or sane.

And then he would go to the Gryffindor commons and speak with his Godfather and ask him about who it was that had pulled him from the brink for the dozenth or so time.

But his Godfather never had the answer.

And Cedric would just say "take my body back, would you?"

Harry often wondered if he was crazy.


End file.
